


strange

by stokedstoker



Category: Original Work
Genre: Childhood Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stokedstoker/pseuds/stokedstoker
Summary: his fingers brush gently over the quilt atop his bed.
Kudos: 2





	strange

**Author's Note:**

> this is a vent fic

hezekiah feels strange. thats the only way he can explain it. he stares up at his bedroom ceiling, the night dark and silent, and feels nothing but.. strange. silently, his fingers brush gently over the quilt atop his bed, a light blue and yellow expanse of ocean inhabited by childish looking octopi, crabs and fish. he's had it for as long as he can remember. the cool fabric slides beneath his flat palms. its texture is weird- wrinkled and somehow always cool despite his own body heat. he needn't look down to know the patterns. simply remembering serves well enough for that. his memories feel foggy and hazy and sick but he knows his brother once also owned one of the same style. a quilt with that same weird cool, wrinkled feel- his one had cars on it though, not sea life like hezekiah's. there were buttons on his brother's blanket, where hezekiah had none. that blanket had always looked ugly to him. he preferred his quilt of friendly looking sea life- a band of friends he occasionally would whisper hushed goodnights to before crawling into bed. the cars were cold and lifeless. red and grey and blue. he doesnt like thinking about that quilt. hezekiah doesnt want to think about the moments shared between he and his brother on it. really, he doesn't even like thinking about his early childhood in general. there are rare sweet, soft moments that he can ponder and smile over, but other than that is none but that sick, sinking feeling he feels now. the empty awareness of his own hands, and where they've been. his palms slide once more over the wrinkled surface of his quilt, continuing to stare motionlessly at his empty ceiling. his hands stop. hezekiah feels strange.


End file.
